


Glowing Embers

by ScarletThread



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fearless, First Kiss, M/M, Post Reichenbach, Song fic, Songfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-10
Updated: 2013-06-10
Packaged: 2017-12-14 12:28:56
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,408
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/836879
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ScarletThread/pseuds/ScarletThread
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>Now is his chance to tell him everything that had been burned into his heart over the years.</em>
  <br/>
  <em>But he remains silent.</em>
  <br/>
  <em>There is a spark between them now. But neither is willing to lean forward and give it air so it may grow into a flame, for fear that he will simply blow it out.</em>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The umbrella ruffles like a disgruntled bird outside the door, before John rolls it up and clambers over the steps to 221B. It's the first time it's rained since the day Sherlock came back. He had looked like a disgruntled bird himself, the feathers of his dark coat dripping pitifully onto the cement.

The entire scene, the long-lost detective materializing on the doorstep with his sopping black spirals of hair, had been so absurd that John had half-expected some sort of comedy to play out: for some snarky quip to leave those lips, the lips that had made themselves unforgettable through deep impressions on John's mind and memory. The arrogant baritone that had rumbled through dark lonely nights, echoing in the chasms of his mind over the years, would have hit his ears and set him off like a mallet to a drum.

But the baritone remained swallowed in the swan neck, the white smoothness ensconced in black and blue down feathers. The impossibly vivid eyes were swimming in apology, but allowed themselves to drown. No hand reached out of the water; no forgiveness was asked.

In return, John hadn't punched him.

Shaky breaths. Clenched eyebrows to cinch up the tears. To steady himself, the doctor had fallen forward and folded the visitor into an embrace, wrapping strong arms around so tight; enough to break the wings of this homing pigeon, and prevent him from ever flying off again.

The pressure had built under each other's arms and traveled up to their eyes, tears mixing with useless rainwater, shoulders shaking with each other's sobs.

And in the mundane peace of John's flat, hands cupped sweaty around cauldrons of tea, black feathers evaporating into wisps, the bird had sung.

*

Before the homing-in of the black-feather pigeon, there had been far too much time for the one left behind to think. Hours, days, years stretching out into taffy that sticks to the teeth and freezes the jaw; sick sugar burning cavities. And the taste that lingered had been Sherlock. And no amount of brushing could wash it away.

So John had given in. It caused more pain to push Sherlock into broken corners of his mind than to shine a light on what he'd lost.

Slowly, with numb hands, he grasped that he'd lost so much more than a flatmate.

Living in the dust of his new flat, bitterness had swirled on John's tongue. He had never realized how much Sherlock lit up his life. Then, too soon, his happiness had been drained away, leaving him in a parched desert of desolation, not bothering to pray for rain because under his flaked and sunburnt skin, it felt impossible to hope. John had clutched onto the frayed bonds of his loneliness, and had resigned himself to unrequited longing, for both Sherlock and the life he'd had with him. He became accustomed to shadowy existence, to living as smoke. Barely there, even to himself; only a wispy memory of what he once was, what he once had.

And then a drenched day, a sudden rainstorm, had brought the return of the flinty detective. And John's life had sparked once more.

The drizzle had turned into a flood, and John was at a loss of what to do. He'd accepted, however miserably, his fate of never seeing Sherlock again. He'd said to himself, on days where the sun beat into his eyes and shriveled the sobs in his throat, if only he'd known before how much Sherlock had meant to him. How much of his life had been consumed by the reckless and meteoric flame of crime and intrigue and piercing blue eyes. _If he was here_ , he'd wrenched out in his mind, _I'd tell him._

And he'd curled the regret into his chest and let it scorch and melt.

Now he _is_ here. Now is his chance to tell him everything that had been burned into his heart over the years.

But he remains silent. The only sound in the flat is the gentle pitter-patter of rain on the windows. The breeze wafts the thin curtains about like the tails of his friend's black coat.

There is a spark between them now. But neither is willing to lean forward and give it air so it may grow into a flame, for fear that he will simply blow it out.


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock is sitting in right angles, his laptop glowing the same color as the cloudy silver light seeping through the windows. John steps inside, dripping and grinning.

His meaningless remark on the weather goes unacknowledged. Unperturbed, he travels around the flat, a bee dipping at precise flowers: his after-work routine. It's Sherlock's job to disrupt such routine.

"I assume you know how to dance."

The bee pauses, but there's no need to panic. He heads for the next flower. "What makes you think that?" Sherlock's right, of course, but John is curious to know his reasoning.

"You've been involved in many years of heterosexual courtship with several different effeminate partners. It's almost a necessity for you to know how to dance."

The bee stops buzzing and floats in the middle of the room, tugging off his rain-slick jacket, his glistening wings. "Then I assume you don't." It's not unkind, just factual. Calmly compatible with Sherlock's tone.

"You assume correctly. Will you teach me?"

Damp leather is knotted at John's elbows, his jacket only half-removed, but he falters. "What?" He's never been so good at clever responses when caught off-guard.

As always, it's for a case. Still and unperplexed, contrasting John's buzzing, the detective explains the details of his latest case: how the two victims were strangled with cello strings, how they have to sneak into an elite ball, how he'll have to dance with the suspect's secretary to avoid suspicion....

As he speaks, details exactly plotted out like neat black notes on a sheet of classical music, John's mind is a warm haze of imagination. Heartbeats close, rough medic's hand folded into slender sleuth's, fumbling footsteps scuffing the wood of the floor.

He's already agreed, is halfway through a waltz in his mind, but he makes a small show of acting reluctant. It doesn't last long, though.

Sherlock, for his part, had already convinced himself that John would agree, but then a miniscule wrinkle of doubt had appeared in his plans. He hadn't wanted this little breath to be the blow that put the fire out. Cool and collected on the outside, as always, he'd hidden the insecurity that pulsed in his brain and threatened to beat onto his tongue.

One buzzing with hazy apprehension; one cool on the outside but burning within.

Both of them hoped, but neither of them knew.

Soon, though, jackets are shed and hair is ruffled, reborn creatures unfurling from their chrysalises. Awkward murmurs are exchanged, questions and answers of where and how. John switches and turns, naturally accustomed to being in the man's position, and trying to reorient himself.

Tentative skin on skin, hands that have always been carefully kept away from one another. A mesh of skin and tendon and bone forms, fingers wrapped over fingers.

"Your hand goes here."

Gentle press of palm to soft waist. John guides it there, then lays his own on Sherlock's shoulder. Interconnected, hands closing the circuit so electricity can hum through them.

One step closer. The spark grows into a glowing ember between them. It warms their chests, flushes their cheeks.

_One. Two. Three._

Stilted steps, pressured bending of knees, bumps on the toe, elbow, sternum. Quiet reminders: _one, two, three._

Sherlock is a quick learner, unsurprisingly, and the pair is soon twirling freely past armchairs and tables. Eyes on their feet, they smile as they navigate around corners. Neither of them notices the couch behind them until calves back into it and arms reach out to break the fall. Grace gives way to a fumbling little tumble.

Sherlock is leaning back slightly, his hand having slipped from John's to push into the softness of the couch looming behind him, and keep himself upright. John is standing over him, his electrified hand inches from Sherlock's on the fabric of the couch.

Over the course of the imagined waltz, bodies had pressed together unknowingly. Ankles tangled below, their heartbeats race against each other above, and they catch their breath on shared air.

A nervous smile, and John rises away slowly.

"Do you want to try it with music?"

The better part of the next hour is spent tied around one another, tapping the beat with their shoes. Echoey, metallic melodies stream from the speakers of the laptop, whose silvery surface reflects the last bits of light shining through the rain. Fingertips press into skin to keep balance as they test out faster tempos.

Accidentally, John picks out a serenely slow tune. Shy glances, but they glide together all the same.

As the glints of light fade at the window, the doctor lets his head rest on the detective's chest. Dark curls lilt down as Sherlock lowers his head to lean into John's hair. The song disappears with the sun.

Feet still. Hands remain raised and entwined. Breaths and heartbeats are slow and far between.

All is hushed, like a funeral. John closes his eyes.

"I should get some sleep, Sherlock."

Pause. Then, carefully, he unfolds. Arms drop lightly. As he turns, eyes down, a soft, low voice breaks through the silence one more time.

"Thank you."

Both know it's not just gratitude for the lesson.

Embers still glowing between them, the doctor takes one step, tilts up, and presses his lips to the detective's cheek. A tissue paper kiss, light and brushing and fragile.

Everything is silent.

They depart to separate bedrooms, rustles and wind and thoughts keeping them awake as the rain settles outside and the streets dry in the morning light.

*

Bright and braggy daylight shines in on spotless white shirts and reverently pressed jackets. Only the best dress for such a ball as this.

Clouds move in over hasty toast and tea, and hurrying, chasing feet. No time for routine, let alone words about a whispered kiss the night before. They keep their mouths shut and walk in short single file.

Reflected in the domed windows of the black-tie taxi, the sky is thick and heavily damp. Storm's brewing.

Inside, the guests couldn't care less about the weather. All is well, stuffed-shirts and low-back dresses surrounded by dainty glasses of champagne and fake laughs that tinkle with the crystal chandelier. The music sounds expensive.

The cello sounds the priciest of all.

An elegantly jaunty waltz begins. Deep, mutely jealous eyes at the refreshments table follow the roaming detective as he dips around the dance floor with the secretary. He's learned well.

John doesn't have much time to loiter, though. He stands alone and oblivious for a handful of dances until a breathless black-feather bird flurries up to point out the music.

It's an unrecognizable waltz.

"The _cello_ , John."

The cello.

What cello?

Alerted, the undercover detectives rush away to locate the murderous musician. Ties are tossed aside in the velvet mist on the sidewalk. Dark eyes pause to roam the streets, trying to search out the escapee.

A quick notification shot at New Scotland Yard, then, with heightened heartbeats and surging impulse, the hunt begins.


	3. Chapter 3

The streets are polished with opalescent rain, streetlights and shoplights and moonlight bouncing and shimmering off it in watercolor splotches. It drips lightly from telephone wires, playing darts on the tops of their heads. They dash past, too quick to be targeted.

They caper across the road, sensible shoes flustering against the slick pavement. A sudden streetlight, like an oversized matchstick, glows gold on their faces.

John turns a quick corner and continues running. His breath pumps his lungs, unfurling in front of him in thick misty clouds; his pupils are blown like hot air balloons. Blood pounds steadily and determinedly into his overworked muscles. At first glance, they're signs that he is aroused. Perhaps he is.

Adrenaline sparks the synapses in his brain, the old rush that he'd nearly forgotten.

In another pool of yellow lamplight, Sherlock, feet ahead of him, leans against a brick wall, catching his breath in puffs. John follows suit, remembering years ago leaning against a wall at his new home, breathless with haste and laughter. And months later, a panicked scurry down London alleys, the whine of the police transmitter still in his ears, and a quick stop to fill lungs and glance at one another.

Then, though, their hands had been locked together, John's thumb pressing the coarse threads of Sherlock's sleeve.

Next to him, Sherlock remembers as well. He remembers the night of held hands. And last night, the flicker of flame as lips ghosted over his cheek.

He shrugs off the risk and breathes on the embers.

A small smile playing at one side of his mouth, he reaches over and damp, rain-dipped fingers clasp onto John's. Their arms outstretched in the space between them like that dark day long ago, but this time they're on the safe side of the law.

Sherlock pushes off the wall and heads off again, dragging the doctor along at his heels. John doesn't protest any of it.

Several footsteps and shouts later, they stand quietly together, watching a watery silhouette get pushed into a police car. Blue and white lights have joined the rest in dancing off the rain, coloring their faces in pale splashes.

Suddenly dampness comes in contact with John's skin again. The detective, eyes still trained dutifully ahead, worms his fingers through John's, cool and curling. But their feet remain firmly on the ground, their breathing heightened only slightly from the contact. Calm and surprisingly sure.

In the blue haze of fluorescent and moon, their eyes meet through raindrop-laden eyelashes that blink with curiosity. Warm smiles glow softly as embers, and the growing flames fight off the dampness that threatens to soak through to their bones. Fingers squeeze together. Then Sherlock covers the distance between them, a short span, barely a few inches, but still unbelievably far.

With a quick breath, finally, _finally_ , lips touch lips.

Their eyes close as raindrops begin to drop delicately from the sky again. Tongues and lips gently press together, content and complementary. When they part, a quiet laugh fills the space between them, joining the patter of rain on pavement. The air sparkles with wet confetti, celebrating.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First of all, thank you for reading, and I hope you liked it.  
> Second, I always like to explain the inspiration behind my fics, so here's what led me to this one: a Taylor Swift song. Yes, really. Despite my not being much of a fan of hers, whenever I see the wet pavement outside after it rains, I get her song _Fearless_ stuck in my head. These are the lyrics that popped up in my head and inspired me to write this fic:
> 
> _There's something about the way the street looks when it's just rained_   
> _There's a glow off the pavement..._
> 
> _And I don't know how it gets better than this_   
> _You take my hand and drag me headfirst, fearless_   
> _And I don't know why but with you I'd dance_   
> _in a storm in my best dress, fearless..._
> 
> _It's the first kiss, it's flawless, really something_   
> _It's fearless_
> 
> So, there you are. This is my favorite of my fics so far. I'm trying out a more abstract style that I quite like. I hope you enjoyed it, and if you did please leave kudos, comments, and constructive criticism, because it keeps me writing. Thank you!


End file.
